he three contestants filed out and took their their places, with the voice-over giving names and places of residence. Alex Trebek came out and announced that all three contestants were newcomers, as a five-time champion had retired on yesterday's show. "Number three," Sweeney said, holding another cup of coffee under her nose and inhaling the steam. "She'll win."

The two detectives merely glanced at her. They were seated on dilapidated office chairs with pieces of foam padding coming out of the cracked vinyl seats, in a small, messy, dingy room littered with coffee cups and soft drink cans. A coffee machine, candy machine, and soft drink machine took up a lot of space and underlaid the silence with an incessant humming. The television was a thirteen-incher, receiving only off its bunny ears, but the picture and audio were fairly clear.

They weren't the only three in the room. Cops being a naturally nosy bunch, whoever had a few minutes free found an excuse to see what was going on. Three uniforms and two more suits had joined them. When Aquino growled that this wasn't a damn circus, one of the suits shrugged and said, "Hey, we like Jeopardy! too."

Alex read off the categories. "Inventors."

"Cyrus McCormick," said Sweeney.

" 'Little' Movies, and the quotation marks mean the word 'little' will appear in each answer."

" 'Little Women'," Sweeney said.

"I coulda guessed that," said a uniformed officer.

"Then why didn't you?" asked someone else.

"Quiet!" Aquino barked.

"Colleges and Universities. "

"Tulane," Sweeney said. She gripped the cup tighter. Doing this in her apartment wasn't the same thing as getting it right this time, when it was important. Maybe she had just been making lucky guesses.

"Business and Industry."

"Three-M."

"Math."

"Prime numbers."

"And finally, Highways and Byways."

"I-Ten, and I-Ninety," said Sweeney, and waited tensely for the first contestant to make her choice.

"Math, for a hundred," said contestant number one.

Alex read the clue. "These numbers are evenly divisible by only the number one and themselves."

Number three was hot with the button, ringing in even though the other two were frantically pushing theirs, too. "What are prime numbers," she said.

Silence fell in the dingy little room in the police station. One by one other choices were made, and each time Sweeney gave the correct answer. Sometimes she barely had time to get the answer out before the clue popped up on-screen, but she always made it. Contestant number three was on a roll; even if she didn't ring first, she was always ready in case one of the other two stumbled. By the time the first commercial break rolled around, she had twice as much money as the other two combined.

"I think we've seen enough," said Aquino, getting to his feet.

"Maybe you have," replied one of the other detectives. "I want to see the rest of the show."

Shakily Sweeney rose and followed Aquino out of the room, with Ritenour right behind her.

"All right." Aquino growled when they were once again in the interrogation room. "So you can do that. And that thing with the traffic lights. I'm impressed, but I ain't convinced. Convince me."

She stared helplessly at him. "Convince you, how? I can barely believe it myself, and I'm living it. I can't tell you what's going to happen tomorrow, and I can't read your mind. I paint in my sleep and I see ghosts—oh, damn," she finished weakly, seeing those looks they were giving her again. She hadn't meant to mention the ghosts. There was no way to prove she saw them, because she was the only one who did. If she hadn't been so tired, she would have had better self-control.

"Ghosts," repeated Ritenour.

"Forget I said that."

"Uh-huh. I'm going to forget to eat for the next week, too."

She wished he hadn't mentioned eating. She had been trying to ignore her hunger, which was just one more discomfort added on to being cold and exhausted. She made a dismissive gesture. "No one else sees them, so it doesn't matter. They don't bother anyone; most of the time they don't even say hi. Although Elijah Stokes did tell me his sons' names so I could send a sketch to them."

"Elijah Stokes."

"The hot dog vendor who was killed. The other painting. Have you checked on that yet?"

"I'll see what I can find. Some other precinct probably handled it. Where was he killed?" asked Ritenour.

"I don't know, but one of his sons could tell you. Their names were…" She searched her memory "Daniel… no, David. David and Jacob Stokes. They're both attorneys."

Ritenour left the room. She leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead where a headache was beginning to form.

"Does anyone else know about that painting?" Aquino asked, and she opened her eyes to find his shrewd gaze on her. "Besides Mr. Stengel."

"Ste—? Oh, Kai. " She had heard his last name only a couple of times, and most of the time it escaped her.

"What about Mr. Worth? He's been in your apartment. Has he seen the painting?"

Not mentioning Richard was one thing; lying to a cop was something else entirely,

"Yes," she said, her voice so weary it was almost inaudible. "He's known about it from the beginning."

Aquino's eyebrows rose. "From the beginning… as in several days ago?"

"That's right."

"I wonder why he didn't see fit to mention this to us yesterday."

"He didn't want to implicate me. He knew this would happen," she whispered. "He said that when I finished the painting and we knew who the murderer is, or at least have a description, he would somehow point you in the right direction."

"Big of him," said Aquino furiously. "I don't like civilians deciding for me how I should do my job."

Sweeney slapped her hand down on the table, suddenly as furious as he. "Just what would you have said, Detective, if Richard had come to you and said, 'Oh, by the way, the woman I'm seeing has some psychic ability and she's doing a painting of the murder'? Would you have believed him, any more than you believe me?"

He put both hands on the table and leaned toward her, aggressiveness in every line of his burly body. "It isn't my job to believe everything I'm told."

"No, but it is your job to recognize the truth when it's staring you in the face!" She leaned forward, too, bringing her nose as close as possible to his.

To her surprise, he raised his eyebrows. "As far as that goes," he said mildly, "I'm inclined to believe you."

Talk about taking the wind out of her sails. Sweeney sat back, feeling herself go flat without the puff of indignation. "You do?"

"You proved the possibility to me," he said. "I didn't think you could, but you proved everything you said. Traffic lights turn green, parking spaces open up, and you could make a killing playing Jeopardy! What you did is way beyond the law of averages. So if you can do all that, then… He shrugged. "The painting is possible."

She couldn't think of anything to say. For a second she thought she might cry, but the urge went away. She was too tired to make the effort.

"Tell me something. Why didn't you call a lawyer?

"I would have, if you actually arrested me. I haven't been arrested, have I?"

"No, but if it hadn't been for that Jeopardy! thing… probably."

"I would like to make a call, though."

"You want a lawyer now?"

"No," she said. "I want to call Richard."

"I think I'll place the call myself," he said.

While they were waiting for Richard, Ritenour returned with a copy of the investigative report on Elijah Stokes's murder, complete with a diagram of the scene. The clothing description matched that in Sweeney's painting, as did the head wound, and the body's location and position. A nineteen-year-old punk had been arrested, and blood splatters matching Elijah Stokes's blood type had been found on a shirt under the kid's bed.

The painting was eerily accurate, and there was no way Sweeney could have come by the knowledge other than the way she described.

Richard didn't arrive making angry comments had loud demands; he was too smart for that. Nor did he bring in a highpowered lawyer with him, though Sweeney had no doubt he could have one there on a moment's notice. He was dressed in suit and tie, which at that hour made her think he must have been with Candra's parents, making the final arrangements or perhaps even receiving friends who came to offer their condolences.

He shook hands with both detectives, but the entire time his gaze was on Sweeney, and when he saw how she was bundled in her coat, he made no effort to hide his worry. She had stood when she saw him, and now he stepped toward her, unobtrusively opening his suit jacket. When he folded her in his arms, she was wrapped inside the warmth of the garment, her cold hands sliding around to rest on his back at waist level. She buried her face in the curve of his shoulder, so relieved by his warmth and presence, the knowledge she was no longer alone, that she almost sagged against him.

"You should have called," he murmured.

"And you should have told us about the painting yesterday," Aquino pointed out.

"I would have, if I had thought it would spare her this."

"Do you verify you saw the painting in progress, days before Mrs. Worth was murdered?"

"Yes. I saw it from the first, when she had completed only two shoes." He glanced up at the detectives. "I wasn't at the scene, and you still have what Candra was wearing that night, so you'll have to tell me if the clothing Sweeney painted was accurate. The dress was black, full-skirted, and the shoes were black pumps with little gold balls set in the heels. Right?"

"Right."

He had just verified everything she had told them, Sweeney realized. He hadn't been to her apartment since Candra's death, so there was no way he could have seen the painting after the murder. What he had just described had been painted prior to the murder. They knew he hadn't seen the clothing anywhere else.

"Okay, okay," Aquino said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "Unless you two conspired to commit murder, for God only knows what reason, since you have no motive that I've been able to find, Ms. Sweeney is clear."

"What about the painting?" Richard asked. "Do you want her to finish it?" She felt his arms tighten around her as he asked the quesfion, and knew he worried about what she went through but couldn't see any other option.

"By all means," Ritenour said, after an agreeing nod from Aquino. "The painting is in no way admissible as evidence, but we do have some trace evidence that would provide the link, if we can identify the guy."

"What if neither of us recognizes him?" Sweeney asked.

"With a good physical description, we should be able to match him to the surveillance tape, which shows the date and time. By matching the time to the guard's signature log, we'd have him cold."

Richard looked thoughtful. "I might recognize someone, if I saw the tape."

"We didn't," Aquino said. "We've managed to get photos of most of the guys on the list—"

"What list?" asked Sweeney.

They ignored her. "—but the guard didn't recognize any of them, and we couldn't match any of them to the tape. We're still tracking down the people who did register as visitors, but so far they've all checked out."

"The painting's our best bet right now," Ritenour said.

Richard nodded. "I'll stay with her tonight. I don't want her to be alone. Kai has probably spread the news about the painting all over town, and whoever killed Candra could already know about it. Not only that, I can call you immediately if she finishes the face."

Something in Richard's voice must have alerted the detectives. "Mr. Worth," said Aquino, "if you're thinking about any heroics, I have to tell you I don't think that's such a good idea. If by any chance Ms. Sweeney should be in any danger, you should concentrate on getting her to safety and leaving the apprehension of a criminal to us."

"Taking care of her is my prime consideration," said Richard, and Sweeney wondered if they noticed he hadn't necessarily agreed with them.

Edward was driving that night. "We're taking Ms. Sweeney home."

"Very good, sir."

The detectives had given both paintings back to her, and Edward stored them up front with him. The paintings startled him enough that he actually looked taken aback for a moment, then his expression smoothed out and he handled them as matter-of-factly as if they had been landscapes.

When they were seated, Richard reached for Sweeney's hand and twined his fingers with hers. "You're cold," he said.

"I was scared." She squeezed his hand. "This wasn't as bad as the other episodes. As long as they kept the coffee coming, I managed."

"If you had called me immediately, a lot of this could have been avoided."

"On the other hand, once they witnessed my prowess at Jeopardy!, they were a lot more inclined to believe me."

He gave her a puzzled look. "Jeopardy!?"

"One of my new skills. I'll show you someday."

Their entwined hands were resting on her right thigh. His knuckles rubbed lightly back and forth. "Candra's parents and some of their friends are at the house," he said. "We've settled on the arrangements for the service—they want her buried close to where they live—but they're ready to go back to the hotel. I'll have Edward drive them, and I'll grab a change of clothes then take a taxi to your place."

If she were noble, she thought, she would tell him she knew he had a lot to do and she would be perfectly all right by herself. She must not be the least bit noble, because she was tired of facing the nights by herself and she wanted him with her.

Besides, Richard's comment that Candra's killer could now know about the painting hadn't gone unnoticed. Part of her couldn't believe she was in any danger, but the logical part of her pointed out it would be smarter not to take any unnecessary chances. She slept very soundly; she might not hear anyone breaking into the apartment, unless they crashed, movie-style, through the window beside her bed. After being awake all the night before, she was so exhausted now even a crashing window might not wake her.

As if he followed her thoughts, the way he so often did, Richard said, "Did you get any sleep today?"

"No. Did you?"

"I caught a couple of hours after lunch."

She envied him both the nap and his stamina; he looked untouched by fatigue, as alert as he always was.

"You can sleep tonight," he promised softly.

She squeezed his hand and pitched her voice low enough that Edward couldn't hear. "Not all night, I hope."

"I think I can guarantee that." He squeezed her hand in return, and Sweeney sat in contented silence for the rest of the drive.

A tiny Italian restaurant was located across the street and several doors down from Sweeney's apartment building. The restaurant was popular in the neighborhood, with a steady stream of nearby residents stopping by for takeout. Kai managed to snag a table by the window, seating himself so he could see anyone entering the apartment building.

Letting himself get involved in the plan to kill Candra had been partly impulse, because she'd been such a bitch and was planning to fire him anyway. The biggest consideration, however, had been the money. A hundred thousand dollars wasn't a lot of money to some people, and it was a hell of a lot less than the million Candra had asked for in blackmail, but it would mean the difference between several years more spent taking penny-ante jobs and supplementing his income with infrequent modeling gigs for sleazy underwear catalogs, which usually included having to fuck some bony, middle-aged hag who thought she was hot because she wielded a lot of power over young men who needed the jobs she provided.

With a hundred thou, he could quit work, finish his art classes, and begin making a name for himself with his paintings. Kai had no doubt he was talented. He knew his stuff was a lot better than most of the crap he had helped sell at the gallery, and now he would be backed by a very influential name that would get him displayed in the most prestigious gallery in the city. He wasn't going to start low and gradually increase his prices; he was going to ask a small fucking fortune right from the beginning; there were a lot of rich fools who would buy paintings carrying a high sticker just because they liked the idea that not everyone could afford to buy them.

Everything would be perfect, if it weren't for that damn painting of Sweeney's.

He regretted that. He liked Sweeney. She was funny and honest, and she had never looked at him as if he were nothing but a piece of meat. She was also genuinely talented, with a knack for realism that meant any portrait she painted would be a faithful re-creation of the subject. Too bad she'd turned out to be a fucking psychic, too.

So he waited, watching for her to come home. Unlike a certain other party, who wasn't the most realistic person he'd ever met, he didn't expect the cops to book her on the basis of that painting. They weren't idiots; without physical evidence at the scene to back it up, they'd have a hard time convincing any D.A. to take the case to court. On the other hand, if she managed to convince them she was for real, they would be checking with her every day to see if she had finished the damn thing yet. just getting rid of the painting wouldn't be enough; its existence didn't matter, just whether or not the other face was revealed. Sweeney would recognize it instantly, and then all hell would break loose. That couldn't be allowed to happen.

Getting into her apartment had been easy. He had watched until the cops arrived; then after they took her away, he waited for his chance and slipped in with a crowd of people returning home from work, while the dumb-ass super was busy watching some dumb-ass game show and seldom looked up.

He took his time checking out the building. There wasn't a hallway window on Sweeney's floor that opened onto the fire escape, but there was such an access on the floor below hers. After ascertaining that, he took the elevator to the floor above Sweeney's, just in case anyone noticed at what floor he got off, then bounded down the stairs to her floor.

Getting into her apartment hadn't been easy, because she had locked both dead bolts. He listened at her neighbor's door, and when he didn't hear any noise from inside, he risked ringing the doorbell. Nothing, and these people hadn't bothered with the dead bolt, trusting in the doorknob lock, which took him about ten seconds to open.

He slipped inside, and stood listening for a moment to make certain no one was in the shower or something like that. Reassured that the apartment was empty, though it might not be for much longer, he turned the flimsy little lock on the doorknob just in case the tenant showed up before Kai did what needed doing.

He had gone to a tiny bedroom on the side adjoining Sweeney's apartment and climbed out the window onto the fire escape. Crouching beside one of the huge windows in her studio, he used a glass cutter to cut a hole in the window right next to the lock. Just in case anyone noticed him, he pretended to do some work in the fire escape, checking the joints and shit like that.

The lock on the window was stuck. Using his knife, he jimmied it open. Then he lowered the fire escape ladder down to the next level and left it. Someone might notice, but since it didn't go down to street level no one would be very alarmed.

Once everything was set, he slipped back into the neighboring apartment and left as unobtrusively as he had entered. Then all he had to do was wait for Sweeney to come home.

He flirted with the waitress in the little restaurant, pretended to read a newspaper, dawdled over his pasta, and then ordered a dessert and coffee. His patience was rewarded a little after nine, when Richard Worth's Mercedes rolled to a smooth stop outside the apartment building and both Sweeney and Richard got out. Richard took two canvases from the front seat and went inside with Sweeney. A few minutes later, he came out alone, and without the canvases.

Kai paid his bill and left the waitress with both a good tip and a slow, wicked smile that did more for her self-esteem than a good haircut. Then he crossed the street and walked around the block until he could see the big corner windows of Sweeney's studio. The lights came on in there, but the angle was too acute for him to see what she was doing. Then the lights went out again; she wasn't working on the painting. That was good.

It was still too early for her to go to bed, but he decided to get back into the building while he could. He had to wait about twenty minutes before a young couple entered the building, and he caught the door before it could close. The super glanced around when he heard the buzzer, but saw the young couple, and turned back to his television without seeing Kai.

Everything went smooth as silk. He went up to the roof and sat patiently, watching the lights and the traffic, listening to the car horns honking and the sirens blaring, distant voices carrying up to him. The city was never silent, never still. He loved the energy of it. The longer he waited, the less likely he was to run into trouble. People would be sleeping in their beds, peaceful and secure, and if anyone happened to wake up when he lowered the sections of fire escape ladders between the floors, so he could work his way down to the street, they would get to the window too late to see him.

They would sure as hell be too late to help Sweeney.